Last Shot

by Daniel José Older

  Lando rubbed his eyes. “Florx, buddy, what’s…how bad is it?”

  Florx looked up and pulled his helmet off, revealing a squinched-up, porcine face framed by wispy white muttonchops. “Bredaxeemum,” he snorted. “Plorp fanoobra.”

  “Well, I didn’t think you’d be able to fix him right away, but did you have to…he’s everywhere, Florx. Can you put him back together?”

  Florx threw his thickly gloved hands up in the air and let out a barrage of Ugnaught profanities.

  “Okay, hey,” Lando said, giving a shrug of acknowledgment. “You’re right, I don’t want him to be fully functional and still trying to kill me, but…”

  “Preedanta forplasm brex,” Florx said, slipping into the voice he used that always sounded like he was trying to explain something really obvious to a baby Ugnaught. It grated on Lando’s nerves, but he didn’t want to get into another brawl with the droid specialist right now. Those never went well.

  “All right, all right, all right.” Lando let some laughter slide into his voice and shook his head. “Did you recalibrate the main cortex processor?”

  Florx shook his head, bristling. “Frinx zeen paltrata.”

  “Well, how are we supposed to access his backup drives without—”

  “Prratta!” Florx insisted, fists coming to rest on his hips. “Prindropt.”

  “Yes, you’re the expert, but a fat lot of good that’s done us so far, Florx.”

  “Crabat.”

  “Why don’t you try and light him back up now and see how—”

  Florx whirled around, throwing his face guard with a clank, and grumbled some choice thoughts about Lando’s management style as he punched something into a keypad.

  DRX’s shiny silver head whirred to life. Two bright-red lights winked on in its eyes as it glared directly at Lando. “Killlll,” it seethed in a metallic whisper. “Killllllll.”

  “COME TO ORDER,” FRANDU THE Rodian insisted over the muttering crowd.

  What were they talking about? Han wasn’t sure, and definitely didn’t care enough to find out.

  “It’s quite simple, fellow pilots: We must formalize the regulations for New Republic pilots across the board. A standardized licensing board and registration system across the galaxy. Simple!” One of the reasons no one liked Frandu was that he insisted on everyone calling him “the Rodian” as if he were some super-special, one-and-only type. But there were three other Rodians in the pilots union alone, none of whom spoke to Frandu, and plenty of others in all levels of the New Republic’s fledgling bureaucracy.

  “A board that licenses and a system of registration that is standardized!” he warbled through the tiny dancing lips at the end of his narrowed green snout. The other reason no one liked Frandu was that he always repeated himself with a slightly rephrased version of whatever he’d just said.

  The entire union groaned as one. Frandu the Rodian stood in the center of one of the Galactic Senate’s secondary auditoriums. The attendees, pilot representatives from all over the galaxy, had been muttering, politicking, and at one point all-out brawling, over rules and regulations for the entire day, and now the Chandrilan sun was setting over forest mountains outside the massive glass dome in which they sat. And Han was fed up. More accurately: Han was still fed up, and now he’d just about had it.

  “Everyone is always so quick to grumble and disagree!” Frandu whined. “Disagreements and complaints come soaring from this group with such great velocity!”

  The only thing that had been soaring at Han with great velocity was the simple, indisputable truth that he was in over his head. Not with the dang pilots union, not with any part he ended up playing in the New Republic—that was tedious, sure, but he’d work it out. No, he’d faced down certain death and gangsters and bounty hunters, not to mention the Empire itself, and somehow come out on top every time. He could handle some fumbling bureaucrats and their insipid need to codify and coordinate every tiny detail. All that was exhausting and generally life-draining, but it was nothing compared with how utterly, obviously, irretrievably unprepared he was for fatherhood.

  Two years in and no matter what, nothing he did was right. He brought Ben a play blaster from Burundang and he was encouraging his violent side; took it away and the boy wouldn’t stop crying. He tried to replace it with a build-a-space-center set and there were too many small pieces Ben could choke on. The worst part was, it wasn’t like Leia was just nagging or inventing stuff to one-up Han; she was right about all of it. So he couldn’t even properly resent her for it! Every time she pointed out some potentially unhealthy or obviously lethal thing Han was doing, it was like—of course! It was right there in front of him all along.

  “It’s okay,” Leia had said as they lay in bed one night with the soft Chandrilan breeze blowing in through the open balcony doors, Ben finally snoring softly between them. “You didn’t exactly have any good models of fatherhood growing up.”

  “Yeah,” Han had muttered. He put her hand back into his hair, which she’d been stroking soothingly while he complained. “I guess not.”

  “It takes time.”

  But that had been a whole year ago and Han still had no idea what he was doing with no sign of improvement. One thing was perfectly clear, though: He wasn’t meant to be a dad.

  “And the honorable Captain Solo agrees,” Frandu the Rodian declared triumphantly. “Don’t you?”

  “Huhaaabsolutely,” Han said, blinking back to the present world. The entire auditorium had swiveled to face him. A barrage of groans and arguments erupted.

  “Excellent!” Frandu shrieked over the melee. “Let us break for a recess and we can begin formalizing the procedural protocols within the hour! The procedural protocols will be formalized after the commencement of a recess period, which we will begin immediately and then return from.”

  “Great,” Han said, ignoring the many glares and mumbled curses directed his way. “See you guys soon.” He stood. He would absolutely not be seeing them soon. He had somewhere to be.

  A transport whooshed by as he stepped out into the streets of Hanna City. It was fine, though; he’d rather walk. The diplomatic residency complex wasn’t far. He would get home, throw some things in his bag, message Lando. His friend was in trouble—that was the bottom line. He couldn’t leave him hanging, not after Lando had saved his life and destroyed the Death Star and anyway it was maybe potentially in some tiny way Han’s fault Lando was in this mess in the first place so…

  He made his way through the bustling crowds on Heroes of the Republic Boulevard, then turned down Revolina Street and stuck to the back alleys.

  He was defending his position already, which meant there was a fight to be had. Because he was always leaving, Leia would probably say, and why couldn’t he just settle down, with his wanderer’s heart, his shiftlessness, his ever-packed bag? And she’d be right, even if, Han had to admit, she probably wouldn’t say it quite like that, or maybe even at all.

  And yes, it wasn’t that long ago that he’d fallen off the map entirely trying to help Chewie free his planet, but this was different, this was…was it different?

  He turned onto Embassy Row, fastwalked past the guard station with a quick nod and a flash of his ID, and then entered the sparkling gardens and fountain-decorated courtyard of his apartment complex.

  It didn’t matter if it was different or not, really. Lando needed him. And if he was being honest with himself, Ben might be better off without him. At least until he could get it together and learn how to be a father for real, not just some reckless manchild who happened to have a kid. He wouldn’t tell Leia that, though; that would just set off a whole other fight. Keep it simple, keep it straightforward. That was the ticket.

  The turbolift zipped him up to their floor, the front door slid open with a whisper, and then he was home, and the place was blessedly empty except for the whirring
-to-life house droids.

  “Welcome home, Master Solo,” BX-778 chortled happily. “Perhaps I can interest you in a—”

  “Not now, fizzpot.” Han entered the bedroom, reached under the bed for his go bag, found nothing. Nothing. He swiped again.

  “Looking for this?” Leia stood in the doorway, holding the bag in one hand, a sly smile on her face.

  Han jumped to his feet. “Leia, I…Look, this is—”

  “I packed it for you,” she said, still smiling, eyes sad.

  “You what?”

  “Your favorite flight pants—you’ve really got to get some new ones, though, Han; it’s getting ridiculous—and an extra weapons belt. Socks, underpants, all your spare bathroom stuff. It’s all there.”

  Han raised his hands, opened his mouth, a hundred explanations, excuses really, poised to pour out. None came. He dropped his hands by his sides, shook his head. Completely disarmed. And suddenly very sad.

  “It’s okay,” Leia said. “You don’t have to explain. And I invited Lando and his Twi’lek friend over for dinner tonight so you guys will have a chance to talk about it more.”

  She wasn’t even doing it to make him feel bad; that was the worst part. She really did understand that he needed to go. Which made him not want to go at all, but didn’t change the fact that he had to. And it didn’t mean he was suddenly going to be a good father, either.

  He stepped toward her, reached for the bag. She held it away, pulled him into a hug. “Uh uh uh…promise me this,” Leia whispered, looking up at him.

  The mission seemed suddenly desperate, impossible. A long-dead Pau’an gangster and his maniac droid? Chasing some device halfway across the galaxy, and for what? Han didn’t like any of it. “What’s that?”

  “Come back to me alive, Captain Solo. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Han said, and then he kissed her.

  PANTS: DARK PURPLE WITH A gold stripe up either side. Pressed and creased sharply down the middle, of course. Subtly flared at the hems over shined and waxed narrow-tip dewback-skin boots, sloping inward and tight toward the top. Tight enough for a bulge and the insinuation of an ass; not so tight as to cut off circulation or impede a smooth cavort across the dance floor. A black-and-red-dyed bantha-hide belt circled the hips, held tight in the precise center by a glinting copper-starred buckle.

  Shirt: Light-blue Sleedaran silk. It hung just right, stretched here, loose there. Cast soft shadows beneath each pec: a mere suggestion, not a shout. Inverted triangle of dark-brown flesh opening up to a slight flare at the collar, a larger, lighter echo of the perfectly trimmed arrow of thick black hair over the chin.

  And boom: Smile unassailable. One eyebrow raised, now the other. Indeed.

  Finishing touch: The cape. Yellow? No. No, no no. Tonight: Red. Bright, unflinching, unapologetic, crimson red. Unstoppable red. Red that reflects the light, sends it dancing back out across the room like a million stars. Red lined with…hmmm…red lined with a more reserved magenta to offset the heavy purple of the pants.

  Perfect.

  It was close to midnight, the dawn of a brand-new year; the Empire was creeping its way across the galaxy like a ruthlessly bureaucratic, occasionally lethal fungal infection, and the thriving underworld of smugglers, spice dealers, bounty hunters, and assorted denizens of the crime syndicates that kept them afloat had all gathered to celebrate the coming era of overindulgence and excess. The mind-numbing rickety drum ’n’ drone bursts, moans, and clacks of RevRav and the 4-Pies blurted out across the tenth-level solarium den of Weigh Station Karambola; beautiful women of all species were everywhere looking as fine as they wanted to, and a now fully dressed and manicured Lando Calrissian high-stepped through the revelers, feeling good.

  “Faztoon,” he said, nodding at an Ithorian. “Good to see ya, old buddy. Primco Farg!” Faztoon chortled something and waved; Primco, a human bounty hunter whom Lando didn’t care much for, just looked away. Didn’t matter. The night was made for fun. “All right, Barto!” A pointed finger. “Smooyt! Did you ever get ahold of those nanoblasters you kept—” Smooyt cut him off with frantically waving tentacles and a meaningful scowl. “Okay, never mind then!” Lando spun out of the way and nabbed two bubbly drinks from the tray of a passing server droid without losing his stride. Then he stopped in his tracks, pursed his lips, and shook his head. “Prita Sven.”

  The woman smiled with half her mouth and gazed down at Lando, one long-fingered hand on her (full, deliciously thick) hip, the other holding the tube of an elegant smoking apparatus up to her (full, deliciously thick) lips. A glittering gold gown hung off one shoulder and slid down between her long legs, revealing plenty, hinting at more. “Ah, Larren,” Prita said in a sultry whisper.

  “Lando,” Lando said. “but you can call me Larren if it—”

  “Larren Carlprispan,” Prita declared, uninterested in pithy details. She took a gulp of smoke and released it into the air, then deigned to give him a quick glance-over, seeming to store what she saw in a file somewhere. “How have you been?”

  Lando really didn’t care how she said his name, as long as he could find a way to slide that dress off her later that night. “Much better now that I’ve seen you. What brings a lovely lady like yourself out to this gruesome den of outlaws and kingpins? Wait…” A tiny blip of information surfaced in Lando’s mind, clicked into place. “Don’t you work for the—”

  “Galactic Empire, yes. I was a regional administrator when you last saw me at the Berullian Checkpoint. I have been upgraded to vice grand administrator of stormtrooper recruitment.”

  Lando had never been to the Berullian Checkpoint, and the last time he’d seen Prita had been on Pantora, when he’d had to sweet-talk her into letting him fly offplanet with a freighter full of illegally poached forlyn carcasses. It had worked, but he’d had to bust out pretty quick after that and hadn’t had the chance to see if that sweet talk would pay off in any other ways.

  Prita had never been good with the small stuff, though.

  “Well, congratulations, Vice Grand Administrator Sven. How ever will we celebrate your promotion?”

  Prita locked eyes with Lando, endowing him with her full attention for the first time. Her lips stayed pursed around the smoke tube, but her eyes smiled. That’s it, Lando thought. We have docking clearance. He was pretty sure that later that night, when they were lying sweaty and naked in each other’s arms, he would trace the whole thrilling escapade back to that singular eye contact.

  “We must find a suitable way,” Prita said in a breathy whisper.

  “Perhaps you’d like to see my starshi—”

  “You know what I hate?” a tall, scruffy guy grumbled, shoving his way between them and snatching one of the drinks out of Lando’s hand. “Solariums.” For a young guy, Sardis Ramsin had a light-brown face that looked like it had been on the losing end of a few too many cantina brawls. He insisted he was a bounty hunter; no one had seen him actually hunt a bounty but he sure talked a big game. “Who builds a solarium at a weigh station, ya know?” He threw back the drink, took the other one from Lando. Lando blinked at him. “I mean, this is the last stop, so to speak,” Sardis slurred on, “the actual butt-end of the galaxy, a galactic toenail clipping, basically, and so, like—”

  “Sardis, buddy,” Lando cut off whatever rehearsed punch line was being grasped for. “Didn’t you notice two tens were talking?” He squeezed Ramsin’s shoulder. “And here you are: a five.” He took the drink back and handed it to Vice Admiral Sven. “My lady.”

  Ramsin squinted but couldn’t seem to work his way through the logic of what Lando had said. He shrugged. “All I’m saying is, who names a weigh station after themselves, you know?”

  “That guy, actually,” Lando said as all three meters of Fastid Barancul Karambola loomed behind Sardis Ramsin. “That guy right there.”

  Rams
in paled, eyes wide, and then turned just in time to catch the full force of Karambola’s twelve-kilo slab of fist across his face. Lando watched with mild amusement as the supposed bounty hunter went hurtling backward into a crowd of gossiping Rodians, who commenced part two of his beatdown accordingly.

  Lando shook his head. “Take it easy on him, fellas, that guy might be something someday. Ooh, that had to hurt! Yeah, probably won’t be much anyway, never mind.” He turned, looked up and then up some more. “It’s good to see you, Fastid,” Lando said, shaking Karambola’s huge hand and trying not to wince at its crushing grip. “Been a minute. And I’m sure you know the relentlessly lovely Vice Grand Administrator Prita Sven.”

  “Delighted,” Prita said, pointedly not offering her hand up as a sacrifice.

  “Of course,” Karambola said, with a wink. “I hope you weren’t troubled by that tiny clown. Please enjoy yourselves at the bar on me for the remainder of the night.” The weigh station master had always been the most well-mannered and best-dressed Crolute Lando had ever met.

  And there it was. Lando offered his arm, Prita took it (that grip!), and they seemed to almost glide through the crowd toward the bar.

  “Damn, Bludlow,” Lando said as they passed the Rodians putting their finishing touches on Sardis’s beatdown. “You really didn’t have to do him like that.”

  “I certainly hope,” the vice grand administrator confided with a sly smile, “that once we’ve secured our drinks, you’ll allow me to take you up on that offer to see your starship, Mr. Calprurnian.”

  “Why, my dear Vice Grand Administrator, I would like nothing mo—” An insistent tug on Lando’s arm cut his words short. He spun around, preparing to let fly a barrage of curses at whatever drunken fool had interrupted him this time. Instead found himself staring into the single illuminated eye of his piloting droid, L3-37.

  “I need your help,” she said in an accelerated deadpan that Lando had learned to recognize as urgent.